Playing Doctor
by SpiritBearr
Summary: What's that old saying? 'A doctor is often the worst patient? Leonard McCoy is a walking example of that. It's Jim's turn to play nursemaid, with a little help.-COMPLETE-
1. Chapter 1

**Title: Playing Doctor**

**Author: Spiritbearr**

**Summary: What is it they say? 'The doctor is often the worst patient?' Leonard McCoy is not the exception to the rule. Jim gets to experience a role reversal. **

**Warnings: Truthfully? I can't think of any. This is meant to be a light hearted, sweet fic with a hint of character study. There might be some light language. Maybe? **

**A/N: Still unable to update The Trouble With, uh, Trejjions?, but it shouldn't be much longer, folks. I just have no internet access on my PC or way to recover the chapter from my main computer to my laptop. One or he other should be resolved soon enough. While I wanted to start on The Ghost and Mr. Kirk, a few people commented that they were rather eager for this particular work, so here you go. For being such great reviewers! *Loves ALL of you* **

**_____________________________________________________________________________________**

**Playing Doctor**

McCoy sneezes.

It is slight, barely audible, but it makes Kirk's head come up, tip to one side. "Bless you. Again. And, just for the future, _bless you_. That's the fifth time in as many minutes, Bones." He drawls. "You okay?"

"Fine." McCoy growls irritably, but he does not _look_ fine. He looks pale, and the bags under his eyes are accentuated. He's wrinkled, rumpled, and slumping over the table where they are eating lunch; or rather, Spock and Jim are eating lunch- some strange bright red fruit Jim doesn't know and a turkey sandwich, respectively- and McCoy is rather uncharacteristically pushing his salad around with his fork and looking at it like it might bite back.

Spock and Jim glance at each other, one's eyebrow to his hairline, the other smirking. "Okay," Jim says, "you're fine." And he goes back to his sandwich. It is Spock who casually reaches out to steady McCoy's shoulder as the man lists, and Jim tries very hard not to laugh into his coffee as McCoy startles. He pushes himself upright, glaring daggers at Jim.

"Don't you two have better things to do then torment me?" McCoy grouses, shoving the chair back and grabbing his tray. His voice is raspy and his southern drawl is so accentuated that he's hard to understand. They are used to Scott and Chekov, though, and in comparison this is nothing.

And he coughs, painfully, forced o grip the chair to steady himself. Jim is leveling him with a steady, unwavering Oh Really? Stare, and Spock, hands steepled in front of him, has that _not smile_ hiding somewhere in his eyes.

"Mr. Spock," Jim begins, never once pulling his gaze away from McCoy, who is apparently starting to feel a little-well, _squirmy, _for lack of a better word, and is fidgeting slightly which Jim thinks is only fair, since McCoy is one of the only people who can stare him down, usually. " do you think our well educated, intelligent ship's surgeon, brought aboard one of only twelve starships- and not only _that_, but the _Enterprise_, a very special lady with a very special responsibility- a man who knows his job and his duty, and a man who knows how easily four hundred plus people could spread an illness among themselves with such close, constant contact in a confined area, would attempt to do his job as a CMO _while sick himself_, do you?" There is exaggerated, feigned shock and horror in Jim's voice, and he sounds a little like a shocked lady in the eighteen hundreds who needs to fan herself. Not that high pitched, of course, because then it might be Jim, not McCoy, who should take a visit to sickbay. Just in case, you know.

Spock's head lifts slightly, and in a way that demonstrates just how contaminated he _must_ be from his extended experience with humans, plays along in the driest, most Vulcan manner possible. "From experience with your ship's surgeon, Captain, I can say he is a classic example of an overly-emotional, completely irrational human prone to lapses in both judgment and logic. However skilled he is, and undeniably intelligent, I can not say with any great certainty that he would treat his own illness the way he might treat another crew member with the same said illness. In fact, I believe there is a ninety percent chance that he would _ignore_ said symptoms in favor of maintaining his station."

"Now wait just one darn minute, _both_ of you-"

"_Really_?" Jim interrupts sharply, and there is laughter in his eyes but his lips are thin and compressed. Not Happy. "How strange, considering his absolutely _dictatorial_ attitude about remaining not only in sickbay or confined to our quarters while ill or injured, but _in bed_."

"Indeed. As I have said, completely illogical, and not a little hypocritical."

McCoy turns to both of them, hand white-knuckled with anger on the back of the chair. "I am _fine_ and if I _wasn't_, I _would_ be confining myself to my quarters. When I _am sick_, I _will_. For _now_, I am _still your medical officer_, Jim, and I think I know more about it then you do."

"He's sick." Jim says, stage-whispering to Spock, rather then address the tone of voice or words. "Bones complains I'm bad when I'm sick, but he's a _porcupine_ when he doesn't feel good."

Spock, amusingly, seems to understand the reference.

"I am _not_-"

"-as bad as you always growl about Spock and me being? I beg to differ."

"_Sick_."

"Why yes, Bones, I think you are."

"_James Tiberius_-" A cough interrupts him, and Bones is suddenly forced to sit down as his world spins wildly. Jim places his hands on the man's shoulders, instantly up out of his own chair, speaking his name in gentle concern, all teasing and play gone. When he gets his breath back, Spock is just in front of him, extending a cup which he takes gratefully- tea, steaming and hot- and Jim is tugging him upright. "Quarters, Bones. Go to your quarters and _stay there_."

"I'm-"

"Do I have to make it an order?"

"No, sir." Bones grips, the use of he _sir_ very obviously embittered.

"Good." Jim lets go, and McCoy pushes upright, weaving slightly. "Gonna make it?"

"Don't baby me, Jim." He growls in warning. "I'm not an invalid."

Jim glances at Spock, helpless exasperation in his eyes. "Alright, alright, put the claws away. Spock." Jim gathers his tray and jerks his head back to the hall. But as McCoy leaves, his hazel eyes never once drift from the doctor's form.

"I'll go later and make sure he's not dead." Jim says, as they dispose of the remains of food.

"Humans," Spock comments, "are very odd. Doctor McCoy knows what pushing an ill body causes, and frequently expresses his exasperation with any patients who perceive themselves healed before he does. And yet he shows the same, single minded refusal to admit injury or sickness as I have often seen _you _display."

Jim slants him a look. "Not just me." He returns, good-naturedly enough. "Bones is stubborn, Spock, I think you'd notice that by now. Besides, 'doctors make the worst patients', haven't you ever heard that?"

"Human colloquialisms are not something I spend a great amount of time familiarizing myself with, Captain."

Jim gives him another look, half amused and half tolerant. "Yes, well, unfortunately, we spend a 'great amount of time' speaking in them, Mr. Spock."

"Yet another aspect of humanity I have come to adapt to."

"Well, anyway, it may be colloquial, but it's _true_. Doctors don't usually make good patients, least of all doctors like Bones. He's stubborn, irritable, and independent. And a workaholic, on top of it." Jim says, and really, he's the last person that has the right to accuse anyone else of being at least three of the above. Sometimes, all four, actually. "We're going to have to tie him to the bed. And I don't necessarily mean that_ colloquially._"

________________________________________________________________________________

It is later that evening. The U.S.S. _Enterprise_ moves gracefully through space, on course without any incident (yet) and no excitement (for now.) In fact, it is so calm that the captain of the ship almost wishes for Klingon ships to appear out of a rip in space and begin attacking just to give him something to _do_ besides make sure everyone is doing their job properly and look bored in he captain's chair. (Not that he's _trying_ to look bored. He's _trying_ to look interested in whatever it is Spock is telling him, but frankly his mind is more with his ill best friend. The conversation was interesting, at the start; and any other day he'd be happy to listen. Now, though, between his sheer restless boredom and his concern for his best friend, it's hard to focuse.

Spock tips his head, lacing his hands behind his back, not in the least surprised when Jim finally stands, announces to no one in particular that Mr. Sulu has the conn, and marches off he bridge, very obviously expecting Spock to follow. He's not disappointed, of course. The pair make their way to Bone's quarters, where Jim holds up a hand and buzzes, rather then just walking in. There is no answer, and when he tries again, again there is no anwser; so he finally just walks in, the way Spock was going to anyway.

Instantly, he's torn between empathy and laughter.

He can't see Bones. There is merely a huddled lump of miserable bad temper in the middle of the bed, coughing and wheezing pathetically.

"Computer," Jim says, when he can speak without chuckling and feeling like a horrible person, "raise the tempeture of the room four degrees, please." Because it's freezing in here, and he's willing to bet Bones passed out before he thought to do it.

Bones stirrs, under his blanket.

"Jim?" He asks, pathetically, and he sounds hoarse and raspy, with that accent lingering helplessly. "Wha's-"

"You, doc, are sick." Jim drawls, as if they had no just had the fight over just this very subject, "and Spock and I came to make sure you hadn't drowned in the shower."

"Captain, I do not belive it possible-"

"I _know_, Mr. Spock, it's a joke." _Kind of_.

Jim moves to gently tug back the blanket, the back of his hand brushing over his friend's forhead. "Bones, you're burning up," He hisses, amazed that his friend has let himself get in such a condition. "Spock, help me get him down to sickbay."

"No." Bones groans, clearly not wanting to move. He tugs the blankets back up, pushing Jim's hand away.

"Bones," Jim sits on the edge of the bed. "You'd have had us chained to a sickbay bed if we were in the shape you are."

McCoy groans, eyes closed as his head tosses on the pillow, a weak 'no'. "You two have a job to do, go do it." He groans out, pushing Jim's hand away. "I'll give myself a hypo soon as th' room stops spinning."

Jim smirks, and Spock tips his head slightly. "Doctor, if your balance is so badly distorted, to allow you to attempt to medicate yourself would be highly irresponsible."

Bone's glare is too foggy to be any real threat. "It's not rocket science, Spock, I am perfect capable of-" A sneeze cuts him off mid-sentence, and Jim, with a smile as innocent as a kitten in a ball of yarn, hands him a tissue. McCoy takes it with a glare.

"If you're worried about me, send a nurse in." He mutters, burying his head into the pillow and blindly tossing the tissue. Jim narrowly avoids taking it in the chest, and Spock offers a distasteful eyebrow when it hits the floor. Jim gives him a _well __**I'm**__ not picking it up_ sort of glare, and if Spock had been more human he may very well have rolled his eyes as he stands, delicately picks up the tissue between thumb and forefinger, and tosses it into the appropriate receptacle.

"Bones, you're my friend, and you're sick." Jim says, humor gone from his face. His hand strokes through McCoy's damp hair, and the doctor practically purrs under the touch. With a chuckle, Jim keeps doing it.

"Don' wan' move. Let me die in peace, Jim."

He Captain snorts a laugh, and from where he's reseating himself, Spock accidentally on purpose kicks Jim in the ankle in reprimand. Jim whines like a wounded dog, Spock pretends he has no idea why Jim is acting like he was just kicked _on purpose_, because obviously that would be a highly emotional thing to do, therefore, not possible for Spock, and Bones groans at _both _of the clowns to _get the hell out of his room._

"Captian," Spock offers, "may I suggest if Doctor McCoy can not go to sickbay, we bring sickbay to him?"

Jim looks up, and even though he is not nearly so eloquent with an eyebrow as his wo companions, he gets his message across pretty neatly. They are not getting the hell out, which is all Bones knows, and he groans again, which makes him cough.

"Spock," Jim says, as Bones begins to hack helplessly, "That is a very good idea."


	2. Chapter 2

Hours later find the two men sitting quietly in McCoy's room. Spock is in a chair in a corner, reading something idely from a PADD and with a blanket tucked up around him-this is clearly his bed for the night. Jim is on his back on the floor, which he's going to suffer for later but for now is quite content, reading an actual binding-and-paper book out loud to Bones. (Spock doesn't seem to mind; he can focuse on two or more things at once with the ease of very few other males of any species, and anyway, Jim's voice is oddly soothing, low and husky in the semi-dark, warm room. He's reading Moby Dick, and when he inevitable jokes comparing him to Ahab came, he cursed at them both in the same sailor's voice he used to read the Captian in and whacked Spock's leg with the book.) (But that was mostly revenge for kicking him earlier, if he is being perfectly honest.)

Bones is proped in his bed on a stack of pillows with a tissue box and a wastebasket next to him; also, because they discovered that what he has is not just a head cold (the hard way), there is a bucket for any empromptu return visits of luch or dinner. (Of which there have been two, one on Jim and the other all over the bathroom floor.)

His voice is lagging, though, as it get later; and Bones is half-way to sleep. Jim marks and closes the page, sitting up and checking his friend's tempereture. They have half of sickbay in the room with them, or so it looks like- hypos and a few simple medical devices, and old fashioned things like the wastebasket and tissues and bucket and a thermomiter. Bones lauged at them when they brought everything; but really, he was touched.

"If you two are gon' insist on stayin' here overnight, get some sleep at least." Bones croaks, wriggling down to lay flat.

"We're supposed to be worrying about _you_, Bones." Jim replies, yawning and settling the book on the edge of the table.

Bones pulls then blanket over his head, coughing miserably. The last planet they were on was one called Hycanith, a beautiful place with people that were peaceful in all respects. A few of their people had been ill with Hycathian flu; which was exactly what it sounded like. Nothing serious, in most cases; the rough equivalent of earth's flu. The worst of it came in the last stages-when it was most contagious, and large welts rose on the body, sore and itching, and then burst.

Jim had been timid to let his people beam down on a planet with a illness going around; but both the people of the planet, along with Bones himself, had assured Jim that the sickness wasn't anything major-not very contagious unless someone coughed right on you or something, and unless untreated, nothing life-threatening.

They'd taken shore leave there, and enjoyed themselves quite thoroughly, and four weeks later, Bones had been sneezing over his salad.

"I never should have let us beam down." Jim says, pushing up-yep, there's his back, the entire thing seizing up on him and making him groan as he climbs to him feet (heaven help him when he gets old) (well, again, _naturally_ this time)-and checking on his best friend one last time before sleep.

"Captain, your men needed rest. If you had not allowed it there, the next opportunity would not be had for several more weeks." Spock is pulling the covers back from McCoy's face to check his temperature.

"'Sides, Jim, was my own fault. I offered t' help out." Bones sneezes again, twisting away from Spock's ministrations. One long fingered hand holds him steady. "No one else got sick and no one else will, I've inoculated them. Just chance mine didn' work."

"We'll worry about the rest of the crew when we have to. For now, we've got our hands full with you." Jim grunts, guilt not going away (of course not, it's _Jim_) but being pushed to the back of his mind.

"That'll teach you to work when you're supposed to be resting."

"Oh, _look who's talking._" Bones bites out, glaring savagely at him, but the effect is ruined by the massive sneeze that Spock narrowly avoids.

"Get some rest, Bones." Jim pats the doctor's arm gently, as Spock lowers the lights in the room just enough to allow Jim and himself some light to see by if something wakes them in the night. Erm, 'night', as there really _is_ no such thing in space- it's unending, star-filled darkness for the most part. But they simulated it pretty well on the starship; well enough, anyway. "And be thankful that we're not convincing you with a hypo."

Bones opens one bleary eye and gives him a dangerous look. "You're probably accidentally poison me." He grunts tiredly, coughing again and turning away from Spock and Jim to do so. "You're both going to get sick-"

"Then you get to do your job, doc." Jim watches Spock gently hypo his friend, something to ease the ever-increasing cough, mot likely.

Jim slides off the bed, dropping with a wince back to his make-shift bed on the floor. There is concern in his face; no matter how not serious this is supposed to be, all teasing aside, he is worried for Bones. The man is no weakling; he's every bit as strong as his two friends, tough and stubborn as they come. But much of Bones' gruffness is an act, just as a lot of Jim's arrogance is-a front designed to keep the world from seeing and attacking the more vulnerable side, like a porcupine's quills. Bones is tough, yes- but he's not nearly as much as he pretends to be.

Spock moves off the bed, saying something in a low, quiet voice to McCoy, who shakes his head in the negative and yanks the blanket, irritably, up over his head. Jim chuckles, tucking a hand up behind his head, and falls asleep quickly.

__________________________________________________

The sound of vomiting wakes him up. He is awake at the first hint of sound, never a heavy sleeper, and there is no moment of disorientation, no confusion- he knows within moments of waking exactly where he is- he knows his girl better then anyone except Scott. Even Spock and McCoy don't know the ship as well as Jim does.

Most everyone knows where to find everything in the ship, of course-they've been aboard for two years, some of them even longer, under Pike. (He sometimes thinks you could blindfold Spock and spin him around a few times, and he'd _still_ be able to find his way effortlessly from bridge to his own quarters and every room you told him to find on the way.) The newer members of the crew, of course, have yet to know their way around-but even they know how to find certain, often visited areas of the _Enterprise_. And the fact that the turbo lift will automatically take you at least to the proper _deck_ is pretty helpful.

But Scotty and Jim are, very likely, the only two who could be told to get inside the Jeffries tubes and find their way somewhere, and do it in record time-or be stuck inside some room on the Enterprise blindfolded and tell you without having to have it removed where they were.

So when Jim snaps awake laying on the floor, startled, heart racing and eyes struggling to adjust to the dark, he knows almost instantly that he is in McCoy's quarters. He just _knows_- something about the smell of the room, the placement of it, he just _knows_ somehow- and then he can see (kind of, anyway, at least he narrowly avoids cracking his head on the table by McCoy's bed because he's able to make out the edge of it) and there is his Bones, doubled over miserably heaving into a bucket and Spock, moving from the chair against the other wall like a cat, all elegant grace. (Which is completely not fair, really; they're moving at the same speed, but Jim lurches up like a startled dog and nearly brains himself, and Spock manages to look like he's been awake for ten minutes and waiting for this.)

Now that he knows why he was startled awake, his body calms the hell down and thankfully so; the shock to his system makes him stomach roll unpleasantly. He _hates_ snapping awake like that-allowed to wake naturally, he's lazy and slow about it, so much so that he usually wakes up an hour before he has to _get_ up, just to give himself time to lounge- but he's such a light sleeper it happens more often then is good for him. He rolls to his knees and pulls himself up behind Bones, as Spock kneels in front of the doctor and steadies him. He rubs McCoy's back soothingly as his brain begins to function on all circuits, free hand rubbing over his face. It's a few minutes before Bones sits back, and Jim offers to make a chair of himself which Bones gratefully accepts. With the slight weight on his best friend and ship's surgeon on his chest and stomach, Jim sits back against the wall, petting his fingers through the short brown hair.

"Feel better?" He drawls, and Bones' eyes open to give Jim the dirtiest look he's pretty sure he's ever gotten from the older man- and he's gotten a few.

"No." He growls. "No, I do not."

"Well, now you know why _we_ get annoyed when you tell us throwing up's going to make us feel better." Jim drawls, and Bones weakly punches his leg.

Spock pours a glass of water, extending it to McCoy (and ignoring the shenanigans), who rinses first, trying to get the taste of vomit out of his mouth (and off his breath, but that battle hasn't even begun yet)before taking a few swallows.

"The fever is higher." Spock informs softly, "and I believe as we are due to enter the most contagious stage of the illness, that myself and the Captain should remain with you rather then return to duty for the next week at the least."

"Mr. Sulu is perfectly capable of handling the ship, and I'll be called if I'm needed." Jim agrees. "Look at that, Bones, we're all yours for the next week."

"I'm _overjoyed_." Bones coughs weakly, bad-temperedly shoving Jim's hand.

"I know you are." Jim watches Spock move the bucket Bones has just used, inclining his head gratefully when the man carries it into the bathroom. "Gonna blow again, Bones?"

"Not now." He moans a little, leaning his head back against Jim's shoulder. Jim gives a soft, warm chuckle, hands moving from McCoy's hair to massage his shoulders.

"Need anything?"

"To get dying _over with_ already." And McCoy sneezes, just once. But the sneeze is huge, and hard, and Jim is still tired and groggy, and therefore not _quite_ prepared for McCoy's head to whip forward and back with such force. (But really, who is _ever_ prepared for something like that?) He doesn't have time to react (might not have even under better circumstances) and McCoy's head snaps back into Jim's face.

There is no tell-tale _crunch_ of bone breaking, at least. But there is a short, sharp cry, a full-body lurch, and poor Bones lands on the floor.

"_Bones!" _

"_Ow_, damn it, _James_-"

"….Gentlemen?" Spock is pausing in the doorway between bathroom and bedroom, bucket in hand, clean now, and one eyebrow in his hairline. This is Vulcan, or _Spock_, at least, for _I leave the room ten minutes, and you two manage to find some way to injure yourselves. Congratulations, kids, you have talent._

The _not smile_ glints in his eyes, behind the confusion, and if he had been anyone else he very well might have already been laughing like a fool. Jim is on his knees on the bed, one hand over his face, half-laughing himself and rocking with pain; Bones is curled on Jim's pile of blankets and pillows just the other side of the bed, looking for all the world like a beaten dog, eyes closed and moaning softly. Spock sets down the bucket and moves to gently grip McCoy's upper arm- the man is clad only in a black undershirt and sweatpants-and tug him gently upright, supporting him. He seems to have absolutely no balance, and Spock ends up more or less cradling the doctor anyway.

"Captain?"

Jim breaths a curse, but he's sitting more upright now, touching his nose gingerly. "I'm alright." He mutters, shaking his head. "_Sorry_, Bones." He adds sheepishly, grinning and reaching out to help Spock get him into bed again.

"You should be. Got the bedside manner of a rattlesnake." Bones is grumbling, and Jim's eyes dance with play as he sends Spock a look.

"Reminds me of someone else we know, ay, Spock?" He teases gently, moving aside to help stretch the doctor out. Bones glares upwards, but Jim's hands are gentle despite his teasing words, and he brushes a hand over McCoy's forehead.

"I'll have you know-" Bones cuts off with another hacking cough, and he suddenly moans again, for real this time.

"Bones? Doc?" Jim's voice arches up with concern, pulling away.

"Loud." Bones whimpers, and Jim flinches apologetically. Then he raises a brow, because Bones just _whimpered_.

"We will keep the lights low for you, doctor, and our voices as well. However, there is nothing strong enough among your wares for the sizable headache to come."

"I know, Spock, _shut up." _McCoy growls, and Jim flinches, half-laughing and half concerned.

"Aw, Bones." He says gently, pulling his hand away, then, playfully scolding, "play nice with the other children."

Bones snarls something unintelligible into the pillow, and Jim rolls off onto the floor once more. Spock dims the light even further, and Jim does not read anymore that night; but he does wake up, once or twice more, to sooth Bones out of a fevered nightmare.

By the next day, the lumps have started to appear on his friend's skin.


	3. Chapter 3

"-you if you do not stop _touching me_!"

"C'mon, Bones, he's just trying to help." Low, gentle voice, but even Jim is starting to loose his patience. They are back in sickbay now, in a bed in a corner, because the fever got high enough to worry Jim and when Bones spent an entire day delusional they both decided enough was enough.

He is very coherent right now, and very unhappy.

Red, painful welts are raised along the doctor's body. They itch, but they hurt too badly to scratch; they have kept him on painkillers for the most part, and Jim keeps, rather obnoxiously swatting McCoy's hand when it drifts to his own chest or torso. Spock at last resorted to doing the same, and Bones is about tired of them _both_. (Although, privately, Jim thinks it is only fair, really. Bones has a knack for poking, prodding, and generally making your life in sickbay as miserable as possible while he's got you trapped. It feels, in a vindictive way, sort of _good_ to turn the tables on him.)

His empathy is still strong, though, because Bones is vomiting violently and burning up with fever that they're fighting to keep down.

"I don't care if he's got a healing touch-"

"_Bones_," Jim is laughing softly, but his hands are steady on McCoy's as he helps the ill man get a drink of water. His right eye is blackened from the blow two days ago from McCoy's head, the bruise softening already (but he is still sort of glad that he's not showing off the shiner to he rest of the crew.)

Spock lets go, and accepts the water from Jim, setting it alongside the bed. "Doctor, you will irritate and possible infect the welts if you continue to scratch them. I am merely attempting to prevent that."

Bones opens one eye, and something in his face softens. "Geez. Spock, I know-" He sneezes, a few times, and Spock steps out of range with a slight furrowing of his brow. "I know you are." McCoy finishes weakly, burrowing his face in the pillow.

"You're a pain when you're sick, Bones." Jim teases fondly, standing with a stretch.

"What, and you two aren't?" Bones's head lifts, his very blue eyes blazing.

"Doctor, we are most certainly not."

"_Us_?"

The doctor's gaze is unwavering. "You are the _worst_, most _fidgety, _restless, stubborn children I have ever had in my sickb-ba-" He begins to cough, and with a chuckle Jim reaches out to rub his back.

"Easy, McCoy, just breath." He murmurs. "_Breath_," He adds, when the wheezing suddenly begins, and then McCoy is lurching upright and clutching Jim's arm and he _can't_, apparently. Breath, that is.

Jim moves instantly, hands behind Bones' shoulders, holding him up and helplessly still rubbing his back. Spock is calmer, standing by with a hypo and a cup both. He hands the hypo to Jim, who injects it into McCoy's arm, and almost instantly the wheezing eases. Bones drops his head back onto Jim's shoulder as he breaths heavily.

"Doctor McCoy." Spock says gently, and Bones reaches out, accepting the cup which is an old fashioned remedy-hot tea, lemon and honey. The tea was Jim's idea (partly because Bones, while grateful for the technological advances that surrounded him, was an old fashioned 'country doctor', as he often put it, and the familiarity of the remedy would comfort. Partly because it _worked_.)

Guilt marrs Jim's youthful face as he steadies McCoy's hands, which are shaking so badly that the liquid inside splashes slightly. "Easy Bones, easy." He says, as he squirms under the touch in discomfort. "You're burning _up_."

"Head _hurts_." He whispers, closing his eyes and his grip loosens on the cup. Jim goes back to petting McCoy's thick brown hair, a gesture he's discovered years ago sooths McCoy and will usually put him to sleep. It seems to be working-slowly, the tension eases out of McCoy's body slowly. Spock takes the cup and now empty hypo, setting them aside once more, and pushes upright. He has moved two sickbay beds to either side of Bones' bed, and settles now into his. (This has become a recent trend; no one's really sure why or who's idea it was, but once upon a time Jim had woken up from a bad injury, and lo and behold, there the beds had been, Spock asleep in one and Bones in the other. It hasn't happened _every time_ one of them is sick or injured- in fact, in the time since they've only done it perhaps once or twice. But since they are all trapped in sickbay, anyway, Jim figured they might as well. Besides, it, like the tea, is a familiar, comfortable routine that seems to sooth McCoy.)

"I'm sorry, Bones. " Jim says softly, real guilt in his voice; McCoy opens an eye and snags Jim's wrist.

"Don' be an idiot." He grunts tiredly, closing the eye again but not letting Jim go. "My choice, 's why I got sick."

Jim doesn't look anything like convinced, but he doesn't argue with his ailing friend-if only because he's, well, _ailing_. He does yank his wrist free, though, resting his hand on his own knee.

"Stop talking." He scolds. "You're going to hurt yourself worse." The moment the words are out of his mouth, he wishes he could snatch them out of the air and return them; because damn if he didn't sound like Bones himself in that moment. Spock's raised eyebrow tells him so, and McCoy's weak chuckle confirms it.

"_Now_ who's a hypocrite?" He teases, but he doesn't open his eyes, and his brow furrows. "Ow….."

Jim moves to his own 'bed', legs over the edge and elbows resting on them. "I have never disobeyed doctor's orders, doctor." He lies blatantly, and this time it's McCoy's pillow that whacks him in the face.

"Stop hitting your captain!" He laughs out, gripping the pillow. McCoy's effort has cause him to start coughing again, one hand at the side of his head; Spock's hand reaches out (without his even looking) to snag the man's shoulder and tug him flat again. It takes almost no effort on Spock's part, even though he is laying down and reaching over-partly because Bones is in a weakened state, and partly because even only half Vulcan, Spock is stronger then any of them in the peak of health.

"Doctor, if you can not resist the urge to overly exert yourself, I shall be forced to separate yourself and the captain."

Jim bites back the urge to say, _yes, daddy, _and settles for a wry grin. He often has compared the three of them to brothers; but sometimes, he's not _completely_ sure which one of them is meant to be the oldest. Usually he thinks it's Bones, because McCoy _is_ the oldest of them. But when it comes to behavior, they tend to switch roles periodically.

Like now.

"Sorry, Spock." He teases. "I'll stop disturbing your patient."

One eye opens, and there is a dark look that only Spock can give- not a glare, not at all, but a totally blank, flat stare. Jim smiles innocently, holds up his hands, and slides further onto the bed, laying flat on his back. He's tired. _Very_ tired, actually, and finds that pretty strange because he's been doing- well, not much but tormenting Bones and tending to Bones and being entertained by how utterly protective Spock is if you put him in the role of nursemaid for the last week.

Must just be the taking care of part, he thinks, yawning and closing his eyes. After all, they've both been up at the strangest hours possible with Bones, and none of them have gotten much sleep.

McCoy is snoring, having settled down and dropped off almost instantly. The familiar sound lulls Jim, and soon he's resting, too.

So he does not feel Spock's hand ghost over his forehead, or see the delicately pointed brows furrow in something that might have been concern.


	4. Chapter 4

The next morning brings the comedy to a screaming, crashing halt.

The fever had gone up again, and though Spock and Jim had managed to get it under control, Bones was half out of his head with his pain and illness. He kicked the covers off as fast as Jim could get them on; because moments after he discarded them he'd begin to shiver. He called for Jim, for Joanna, once for his father, and not for the first time, Spock watched Jim Kirk's heart break. Their captain curled behind his best friend, cradling his head and murmuring in a low, soothing voice. It did nothing medically, but there was no denying that it helped.

As for Spock himself; he spent the time, for lack of a better word (though he'd never admit it) _fussing_.

He tended to the fever, he kept McCoy's hands away from the welts, he administered medication, his long fingered, graceful hands gently wiped away sweat and vomit from the older man's face and he, too, started to find himself talking when he did it. Soft, nonsense words, sometimes in Vulcan. (Which he knew, _logically,_ made no sense. McCoy did not speak Vulcan, could not understand what he said. But when Jim was supporting McCoy's head and the man was tossing and crying out for Jim and then, much to his surprise, _Spock himself_, he found himself replying without thought in his first language. Jim had glanced up in surprise, golden-hazel eyes softening in a quiet smile, and hadn't said a word.)

_Hush, Lenkam_, he'd said, _we are here. _Perhaps Leonard understood the words without understanding the _words_, because he had quieted.

The welts, as they were meant to, swelled unpleasantly and began to look white and infected in appearance; any touch to them made Bones moan and twist away from them. Spock spreads a salve on the wounds and bandages the ones that have begun to burst, and Jim stays curled around Bone's head, speaking in low tones and holding his hand so long that when he tries to uncurl (four hours later) his legs and back seize fiercely and Spock has to help him stand.

"Rest, Jim." Spock tells him gently, taking the man's spot by McCoy's head. "Eat, shower. I shall stay with him and alert you if his condition changes."

Jim places a hand at the small of his back, stretching with a slight grimace. "He needs us both, Spock."

"Captain, the doctor is in no immediate danger." Spock runs a cool cloth over McCoy's forehead as the man tosses again, whimpering slightly.

Jim frowns, but nods, after a moment. "You do the same, when I get back." He says. "I'll have some lunch brought for us."

He coughs slightly as he moves out of the room, but his back is to Spock and so again he misses he upward glance, the eyebrow lifting sharply. But McCoy is whispering Jim's name again, so Spock's attention is returned to the ill man, one slender hand combing through his hair as Jim does. "He will return, Leonard." He says quietly, trying to send _calm, relax, sleep, peace_ into the man. McCoy is not a Vulcan, but Spock _is_, and a rather skilled one at that. Beyond which, it does not always take telepathic or empathic gift to sooth another with simply a touch.

Though it does give Spock a helpful edge.

McCoy settles, and then his eyes open, half-way, their already stunning blue overly bright with fever. "Spock?" He tries softly, voice cracking and breaking, but at least Bones sees him, knows him. It is a welcome change in the right direction.

"Correct, doctor. Jim has gone to refresh himself and bring lunch. Are you thirsty?"

"Yeah." He lets Spock help sit him up and drink from a nearby cup. He takes a few slow swallows, then pushes it away and Spock returns the cup to its place. "I feel like shit."

"At least you are coherent at the present. You have been drifting in and out of it." Spock says, settling his friend back down onto the blankets and pillows.

"'M not completely surprised." It comes out _surprahsed. _His accent is still thick enough to twist his words, already slurred with illness and exhaustion. "'S what happened to them, near th' end of th' illness. S'long as it's monit-" He stops, eyes coming open again. "You two've been here all this time?" _Tiahm_. It's oddly charming, hearing his usually subtle accent in so much force.

"It was logical. We have been exposed to the same illness by prolonged exposure to you, there is no guarantee that we have not been infected. Better allow the captain and I to tend to you then risk anyone else falling ill."

"Bet Jim's twitchier than a long-tailed cat in a room fulla' rockin' chairs."

Spock's eyebrow twitches as if it wants to lift. "He has been more concerned with yourself then his freedom, doctor."

McCoy's head lowers slightly, a smile touching his lips. Jim is the embodiment of _free spirit_; if Spock is a wolf, Jim is a wild stallion. He does not like to be trapped, confined, controlled, or held in place. As much as he adores his ship, his lady, his _Enterprise_, his crew and his mission-as much as he can go anywhere, never staying beyond what he must, see and do things others only dream of…..even with all that, he gets stir-crazy on the ship from time to time. (Usually only when things are slow.)

That Jim has put McCoy above his own urge to _move_, to go and do as he pleases, speaks volumes.

"Still, he's probl'y goin' a little nuts." A cough catches McCoy, rips him apart until he's doubled over and clinging helplessly to Spock. "Even if he's good at hiding it." He finishes, when he can speak again. He doesn't accuse Spock of simply not noticing; the Vulcan is one of the most observant people McCoy ever has or ever will met.

Spock does not reply- there is something troubled in his eyes, but McCoy is too out of it to pin-point just _what_.

"Spock?" He prods, and physically pokes the Vulcan's side, because they're that close and he is sick and bored and a little stir-crazy himself, and the childish impulse is, for just the one moment, irresistible. Spock gives him a reproving glance and bats his poking finger away.

"Clearly you are healing well." He drawls, certainly not irritated-not_ Spock_, he wouldn't be _irritated_- but with something tight in his voice. "All that is left is for the remnents of the blisters to pop, and the fever to lower."

"And on a ship with the finest medical team available to me, I have Mr. Spock and Captain Kirk." He teases with a yawn. He closes his eyes, bleary-headed again, and coughs painfully.

"You wouldn't have it any other way, Bones." Jim's voice is low and startles both of them. He is standing holding three trays, balancing two cups, and is utterly shirtless, still dripping, and thanking his good stars that the doors on the _Enterprise_ are automatic, because his balancing act would not otherwise work. "A little help?"

Spock untangles himself (and when did _that_ happen?) from McCoy, instantly aware of the _non-presence_ of his touch but still trying to reason out how he did not notice they'd gotten all twisted up together in the first place (and why he had not noticed or cared.) He moves across the room to Jim, taking one of the cups and trays, and resisting the urge to flinch when skin-brushes skin.

Jim is too warm.

It is subtle, slight, barely even enough to be called a fever. But it is noticeable, and the last bit of hope flees from the room like a bird from a cage.

Damn humans and their weak immune systems, anyway.

Spock refrains from speaking, wondering if Jim ever got the vaccine the rest of the crew did, and if it simply failed him the way it had failed McCoy-or if Jim, being, you know, _Jim_, simply did not get it administered.

Either way, it is, as Spock often says, _rendered academic._ The fact is, Kirk is falling ill.

The trick would be getting _him_ to admit that.

Jim settles down on the other bed again, touches Bone's face, reads the medical readouts Spock's machines offer.

"Fever won't go down." He mutters, concerned, and Bones waves a hand.

"It's clingy, Jim." He sooths. "Happened with the natives, too. Takes it's sweet time goin' away." He coughs once more, turning away from Jim and pushing his face into the pillow. He then moans as his wounds touch fabric, and rolls back again. Jim's face twists empathetically, and he glances up at Spock.

"We can't do anything about that?"

"Nothing but what we have done, Captain. Painkillers and salves."

"Headache." Bones groans, reminding them not so gently to please talk more softly; he sounds like he's already groggy again, half-way back to sleep.

"Sorry, Bones." Jim's smile is gentle, as are his hands when he brings the covers up around Bone's shoulders.

The muffled cough, however, is not. Nor is Spock's exasperated stare. Jim does not see it, though, because he is busily fussing with Bones' blankets, still.

"I suggest we let the doctor sleep, Jim." Spock says, when McCoy's breathing evens out. "He will need it. And you will need your energy, Jim." He pushes the tray forward pointedly, and Jim takes the hint. He settles down across from Spock, nibbling at his food a moment before deciding it is acceptable and eating properly. At least _he _still has an appetite, which Doctor McCoy often says means Jim is fine. (Which just sounds cruel, but is _true_- Jim only stops eating when something is seriously wrong with him.)

Spock settles in on the other side, and it is moments later when the Captain speaks, softly.

"Did he say anything else, before he woke up?"

Spock glances up, mildly surprised at the question. "No, Captain." He replies. "I was able to keep him calm."

"Good."

"Joanna is his daughter, correct?" Spock asks, and Jim nods.

"Yeah. He told you about her?" There is no surprise in Jim's voice, and it is unclear if that says more about Jim, Spock, or McCoy himself.

"He has mentioned her in passing." He says. "And expressed desire for me to meet her."

Jim smiles slightly, but again, does not look surprised. McCoy is a snappish, waspish old porcupine, but he honestly loves Spock as much as he loves Jim, and would swell with pride to introduce 'uncle Spock' to Joanna. (Jim remembers being 'Uncle Jim' for the first time, and the look on Bones' face. Of all the women in all the world that Jim has ever met, there are only two he has ever fallen in love with. One is all around him right now, floating silent and glistening and silver-white through space; the other is on a planet miles and miles away, with her mother, and is no older then seven. He thinks Spock would feel the same way about Joanna, Vulcan blood be damned, the moment she opened her mouth and cried, cheerfully, _Hi, Unca' Spock_! in that undecipherable little accent of hers.)

"You should," He replies. "You'd find her _most_ fascinating." He teases gently, taking a drink. Spock ignores the jibe.

"As you know more about doctor McCoy and his daughter," Spock goes on, "then perhaps you can tell me why he seems to be apologizing to her in his delusions?"

Jim stops, fork frozen half-way to his mouth, lifts his eyes and _only_ his eyes. "You do know why Bones isn't with her and Jocelyn, right?" He asks softly, glancing over at McCoy. The delusions seem to have stopped, and the man is peacefully asleep, snoring again gently.

"A divorce, if I am not mistaken."

" A _nasty_ divorce, Spock." Jim corrects gently, setting down his plate. "Jocelyn took-well, _everything_. Including Joanna." He looks over his shoulder again, something sad and soft on his face. "Took him _months_ to be okay again. He still blames himself for it."

"Himself?"

Jim shrugs. "Bones is a healer. He's a _fixer_. If he can't fix it-" He shrugs. "It bothers him. Besides, he really loved her, Spock. Still loves her, maybe. Don't Vulcans get divorced?"

"Not as such." Spock is watching McCoy now, too. "You saw."

"Yeah, well, humans don't do everything so tidily, I suppose." Jim shrugs. "No _Kal-if-fee_ for us. Any blood we draw is usually metaphorical, and sometimes the wounds can be much deeper."

Spock is quiet for a moment. "And he believes himself….guilty? He believes his wife was correct in her accusations?"

"Spock, I don't know _what_ he thinks. You say it yourself, all the time. Humans aren't logical. The few times he's ever talked to me about it-" Jim stops, shaking his head. "He _does_ feel like it was his fault."

"Illogical indeed."

"Yeah, well." Jim shrugs. "You should be used to that by now."

And there is nothing to say to that, because he rather _is. _And maybe, in an odd way, has come to enjoy it.

Which is illogical all on it's own.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: And fin! Thanks to all my amazing reviewers; to those of you who wanted sick!Jim, I apologize. It would have become rather redundant, and this was McCoy's show. Lots of Jim hurt/comfort in other stories and stories to come, I promise. ^_^ LOL! I can't belive how many reviews this has-you are ALL awesome. **

* * *

Jim wakes to low moaning, and when he opens his eyes and looks over at Bones, he feels his heart _stop_, just for a moment. The first thing he sees is the blood, but then he realizes the welts are just bursting and Spock is already awake and tending to McCoy. But there is blood on the sheets, and blood on Spock's hands, too much blood.

"Bones?" He hears himself gasp, his moniker for his friend coming out as hardy more then a whisper. He shoves up off the cot as McCoy moans again and writhes away from Spock's touch. He's across to them before he even remembers moving, because McCoy whispers his name, once, softly, almost a plea. He grips his friend's hand, his brother's hand, slick with sweat and blood.

"Easy. Hush, Bones, I'm here." He sooths. "_Spock_-"

"I have given him everything I dare." Spock replies, his voice taught like a drawn bow, his whippet-lean form hunched up as he cleans another burst welt. "The fever is not dangerously high any longer-"

"_Any longer_? It was, and you didn't-"

"You were exhausted, Jim. You are exhibiting the same early symptoms as the doctor himself, and-"

"_I'm not important right now._" It is not a yell. Yelling is better, less dangerous, with Jim, then the low, deadly growl his voice has taken on. "You should have woke me up."

_Awakened me_, Spock corrects absently in his own mind, but is wise enough not to say it aloud. Besides, Jim has already lost his fire, lifting water to McCoy's lips and using the cloth to try and cool him.

"As I was saying," He goes on, when Jim wraps his arms around Bone's form and cradles him gently, truly calming down, "no painkiller is strong enough to completely negate the effects of the rash. The welts are bursting rapidly, with little reprieve. While it means he is healing, the pain-"

"Isn't there anything you can do?"

"The doctor is-not open to any form of mental contact under the best of circumstances, Captain." Spock says, slowly. "I did not wish to risk the strain on him while you were asleep-also, I am incapable of doing anything else while involved in such an act."

"And yet you kept me asleep." Jim growls. "Spock, damnit-"

McCoy's back arches, and Jim steadies him and sooths him with gentle, calm hands. "Well, I'm up _now_."

"I am still concerned that the doctor's natural tendency to fight my mental contact would worsen his condition." Spock replies, as McCoy thrashes painfully and clutches the sheets below himself, panting softly.

"He's in _pain_, Spock."

And this time it is Spock's turn to lift his eyes- and only his eyes- to stare levelly at Jim- it's not a glare, again, but just a quiet, level look blank of _anything_. This look always makes Jim a little afraid, because this cold, dispassionate creature could be Spock; for all that Spock pretends to be emotionless and unfeeling, he really _could_ be.

"I am very aware of the doctor's condition." He replies coolly, his voice low and stiff. "And if I thought that it would aid the situation, I would do as you ask. He is more then half delusional. His fever is still high, though out of the dangerous range. He dislikes the act of melding, and would instinctively fight my touch. I would be putting both of us at risk by attempting such an act now." If it was Jim, it would be different; even half out of his head, Jim would be totally open to Spock. He always has been; almost frightengly easy for Spock to meld with, almost no resistance.

Jim brushes a hand over McCoy's hair, watching Spock clean yet another burst wound. His eyes are still empty, and blank, and Jim run a hand over his face. Between McCoy and his own threat of illness, he can't handle arguing with Spock right now. Anyway, he has no right to say what he did.

"Sorry." He whispers, and instantly the empty look is gone, replaced by the gentle _not smile_.

"You are concerned, Jim." Spock replies softly, rinsing the rag he's been using. His breath is unsteady and that is the only sign of how distraught he is. Jim reaches over and covers one hand with his own; Spock stiffens at the contact, glancing over- but then he relaxes slightly. He gently removes Jim's hand, but the not-smile is still there, and the action is not harsh.

Jim coughs.

Spock represses the all together too human urge to grimace. They had given Jim the same preventive shot the rest of the crew had received; of course it's going to fail.

Argument forgotten, they go back to tending Bones. The fever goes down by degrees, slowly; by the time the last of the wounds breaks open he's drenched in sweat and almost normal to the touch. Spock moves the beds back to their proper places, and Jim cleans up the mess they've left, as Spock informs the nurses that Doctor McCoy is no longer contagious. Jim thinks it's probably not so much that that's kept the medical team at bay, but rather, perhaps, the protective pair of alpha wolves sanding guard over their injured pack mate.

He chuckles at the thought, lets himself be fussed over, and then returns to the bridge and duty. One week later, Bones is up there, too; hypo in hand and snarl on his face.

"-telling you, Jim, Spock _told me_ you were starting to feel ill when you were tending me, now get down to sickbay-"

"I'm _fine_, Bones, we cut it off at the pass."

"I'll feel better if you just let me-"

"_Bones_-"

Jim's half-laughing, pleased all seems to be as it should be. Bones is alive, and well (he's got some scars from the deeper welts, but nothing too drastic) and up on the bridge, fussing and snarling and growling like a bad-tempered old coonhound.

"Jim, I had the vaccine, too, I still got sick."

"Yes, well." Jim swivels in the captain's chair, pushing to his feet and pretending he isn't dizzy. Damn it. "That's because _you_ decided that you had to play white-knight, and got yourself sick when I _told you_ to stay away from-what? Bones, _what_?" He asks, because McCoy has gone stark white and is bouncing on his toes the way he does when he's worked up over something, lips compressed and hands tight behind his back.

The bridge, Jim notes, has gone utterly silent.

_Did I grow a second head or something? _Jim almost-_almost_-checks himself over, stops himself only at the last second.

Spock is staring at him. _Spock_ is staring, pointedly, at him, and if _Spock_ gets it and Jim missed it, then he really _must_ be getting sick.

"See me in sickbay, Captain," McCoy growls, "or as your chief medical officer, I will have you sedated and dragged there."

And Bones stomps back into the turbo lift.

Jim turns, slowly, to face front. "What-"

Sulu turns back to the helm, Chekov coughs softly, Uhura has her head in her hand, and Scotty is suddenly very busy. The others on the bridge he does not know by name seem utterly unable to look him in the eye.

"Spock…."

Spock turns back to his station. "Yes, Captain." He says quietly. "I will retain command while you appease doctor McCoy."

That isn't what he'd been going to say. But perhaps the best plan is to find out _what the hell is wrong_ with Bones by going straight to the source.

"Very good, Mr. Spock," He says, and stands, and with an odd sensation of dread (rather like a child going to own up to doing something naughty, which is, as Spock would say, totally illogical) he goes to sickbay.

____________________________________________________

Bones is there, writing something on a PADD, pacing sickbay, and the second Jim sets foot in he points the magnetic pen to a bed.

"Sit. Down."

Jim sits. Rather abruptly, and with no small amount of surprise, but he sits.

"Bones, I-"

Cold hands begin to poke, prod, and palpatate; he bats away two rough pinches and one hypo before he finally looses his temper.

"_McCoy_, what is your problem?" He growls, gripping Bones' wrist and knocking the hypo out of it.

"What makes you think I have a problem, _Captain_?"

"That." Jim growls. "And the fact that I'm going to have a _massive_ bruise from that hypo."

For an instant, guilt flashes over McCoy's face.

"Sorry, Jim. That was totally out of line." He says gently, letting out a low, soft sigh.

"Yes, it was. Bones-" He lets his voice soften. "Hey, what's wrong?"

"Jim-" McCoy sets the hypo down, closes his eyes and lets out his breath again. "Nothing. It's-you should say here for a few days-"

"Bones." Jim stands, places his hands on the man's shoulders. "Tell me. You can tell me."

McCoy turns, and maybe it's the pleading tone in Jim's voice, or the warmth and friendship in his eyes, or the fact that they're both not in the peak of health, but he begins to speak.

"Jim, what you said, on the bridge-damn it, Jim-what do you-" He presses his lips together again. "Every time, Jim. Every time you come back from a planet bleeding, or broken, or _hurt_, from some fool self-sacrificing stunt-they call you a hero. You _are_ a hero, but you're a _selfish_ one." Bones forces his voice not to break, but the anger leaks through. "Selfish and stupid and _now_, maybe, you know why I always- why I can't-"

It takes his breath away. The sheer force of emotion on Bones' face, in his _voice_- the pain, the anger.

"Oh, _Bones_." Jim's voice is a rasping husk. "Bones-"

"And maybe now you see," The doctor goes on, slicing Jim off with a swipe of his hand, "just _why_ I 'mother hen' you. Why I'm 'over protective'. What you felt this week was what I go through _every time_. Jim. Every time." He straightens, pushes Jim's hand away.

Jim lets him stepping back.

"Bones," He says, "I'm sorry."

"I know." McCoy replies stiffly, "and it won't change a damn thing, will it?"

Jim looks down, sits on the edge of the cot again. "Bones-"

"Yeah," McCoy mutters, "that's what I thought. Here." And he injects Jim more gently, and places a hand on his shoulder. He smiles, but it's weak, and damn if Jim knows what to say.

"Bones, look, I-that's not true. I don't mean to-"

"I know you don't, Jim, and what I just said-wasn't fair." Bones is looking at his hands, turning them over and over until Jim reaches out to stop them. "I can't expect you to change. I don't _want_ you to, not really. Reckless and stupid but brilliant, Jim, you are _brilliant_, I just wish you were a little more _cautious."_

Jim chuckles.

"And you could no more _not_ step in to save us- or anyone_- _then I could let those sick people suffer when I could help. It's part of who you are. You're a good man, Jim."

"Not always a good friend, apparently." And suddenly Bones' grip is tight, and fierce, and he is shaking his head.

"Don't say that. It's not true, and it's not what I meant." He snaps. "Blast it, I don't _know_ what I mean."

Jim lets go, stands up. "I'll remember, Bones, okay? And I'll _try _to be careful. Okay?"

"Okay." McCoy replies huskily, and it is.


End file.
